Glitches
by volley
Summary: After their near fatal mission in Shuttlepod One, Trip and Malcolm decide to make it the best pod in the fleet...
1. Chapter 1

This story was written for the Entficathon 2008, for JadziaKathryn, who had asked for a gen story with the line "That was something you never, ever wanted to hear from the person at the helm." (PG-13 or under)

Gabi 2305 and IchthusFish were my beta readers for this. Both did a wonderful job.

§ 1 §

"Capt'n, ya know Shuttlepod One?"

Archer stopped cutting through his thick, juicy steak and looked up, tilting his head to the side. When one of the cleverest minds in Starfleet asked such innocent questions something was definitely up. Even T'Pol looked interested in finding out what logical conclusion this conversation could have.

"Yes, Trip. I know Shuttlepod One. What about it?"

"I mean, ya know that Mal 'n I… Yeah, well, ya know what happened to us in that pod."

That had been a few weeks back. Archer had thought the misadventure by now was behind his Chief Engineer's and Armoury Officer's backs, but… He frowned, scanning Trip's face for any evidence of psychological discomfort, his steak and grumbling stomach all but forgotten. How could he be so oblivious to his crew's, his closest friend's feelings? Maybe Trip had been suffering from Post Traumatic Stress, and he hadn't even realised it.

"Are you okay?" he enquired in concern. Darting a glance at T'Pol, who had stopped eating and was following their exchange with her usual impassivity, he went on, "I never took the time to really talk to you, after that mission. I suppose I took for granted that you knew my door is always open and..."

Trip stopped his own, rather vigorous, cutting, and lifted his blue eyes; and for a moment his face was blank. Then it turned almost panicky.

"Oh… oh, no, Capt'n, that's not what I meant," he blurted out.

Archer let out a sigh. "What is it you meant, then?" he asked deadpan, as both he and T'Pol returned to their meals.

"I mean, after that time, while we were recoverin' in sickbay, Mal 'n I swore we'd make Shuttlepod One the best pod in the fleet, so to speak."

"You did?"

"You never told us, Commander," T'Pol clarified.

Trip shrugged lightly. "Yeah, well, maybe I never did. It was somethin' between me and Malcolm, actually."

"So why are you telling me now?" Archer wondered, reaching for the salt.

"Because in our spare time we made some terrific upgrades to that baby." Trip's grin split his face in two. "And we'd like your permission to test them."

Archer chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Like you fell from the horse and need to get right back on it, huh?"

"I did not know Commander Tucker had had an equestrian accident," T'Pol said, dutifully piercing a morsel of celery with her fork.

Purposefully avoiding Trip's merry eyes, Archer turned to his Vulcan SIC. "It's a figure of speech, T'Pol," he explained. "It means to face circumstances which have upset you before you might grow too afraid of them." The pretty face remained perfectly blank, so he expounded, "Trip and Malcolm had a bad experience in Shuttlepod One, so they would want to get in it again before they get anxious about it."

"A peculiar expression," she acknowledged with a lift of the eyebrows.

"I dunno, Capt'n. Maybe it is to exorcise that mission," Trip said pensively. "But… do we have your green light, then?"

Archer gave an amused frown. "What upgrades, exactly? Kitchen Unit? Shower? Toilet?"

He might feign light-heartedness but was already feeling that knot in his gut which, after Trip had almost shot T'Pol on the first M-class planet they had come across, and Malcolm had been taken hostage by those Novans, and... Well, which was becoming chronic.

"Ah – we haven't got to those yet," Trip joked back. "But everythin' else, yes." He lit up like a Christmas tree. "Navigation, engine, weapons, transceiver… you name it. Malcolm 'n I are dyin' to test them."

It was difficult not to get infected by the Engineer's enthusiasm when it came to these things. Although Archer couldn't imagine Reed as being quite as eager about this test flight – unless the man was planning a few explosions, of course: that prospect always managed to perk him up.

"If we make a slight detour from our present course we shall encounter an uninhabited system," T'Pol said. "It might provide an appropriate testing ground for Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed."

Trip grinned at her. "Why, thank you, T'Pol. You can actually be sweet, when ya want to."

"Trip!" Archer rebuked him, hiding a smile behind his napkin. "All right, Commander," he finally agreed. "But I want you to bring Travis with you. He ought to test any helm and navigation upgrades. And Hoshi too, if you boosted the transceiver."

"Aye, Sir," Trip said gleefully, jumping to his feet. "I'll go tell Malcolm." He dumped his napkin in a crumpled heap on the table, much to T'Pol's ill-concealed disapproval, and was gone.

Archer heaved another sigh. His first priority, though he hadn't said it out loud, had been not sending the two officers alone on another mission together, especially in Shuttlepod One... but he'd better keep that for himself. A Starfleet Captain couldn't admit to being superstitious. Not that he really was. No. Malcolm and Trip _did not_ attract bad luck and dangers. It was just coincidence that when they went on a mission, all kinds of things should start going awry…

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

"Shuttlepod One to Bridge..."

Travis Mayweather's voice had a smile in it as he informed the Captain that they were ready to launch. Trip finished checking his instruments at the navigation console and nodded his 'all is fine' to the helmsman.

"Good luck, then, Shuttlepod One," Archer came back. "We'll go take a closer look at that M-class planet and rendezvous with you in about twelve hours."

"Aye, Sir."

Finally the launch bay doors opened and the small vessel dropped out, with that moment of weightlessness that sent your stomach into your throat. The expert man at the helm, though, immediately took control of their fate, veering away from Enterprise.

Trip cast a look at Malcolm, who had closed his eyes and was trying to prove that all blood could actually drain out of one's face. A funny image of very pink feet tickled his mind.

"You okay, Loo-tenant?" he teased, getting a reproachful scowl from Hoshi for his impish tone.

Though it had never been officially acknowledged, everyone knew of Malcolm's motion sickness; of course the man would never admit to being sick. _Sick_ was most likely a foul word in the Reeds' vocabulary – yes, definitely a four-letter word in more than one way. And Malcolm was probably disciplined enough to actually _order_ his queasiness away.

Indeed, the grey eyes opened and their owner cleared his throat.

"That asteroid belt near the closest planet ought to be perfect for testing our weapons," he said, not deigning to address Trip's ribbing.

"_Our_ weapons?" Hoshi twisted her face in a teasing smirk. "Thank you, Lieutenant, but I gladly leave you full ownership of anything that zaps and crackles and explodes, and is generally meant to heave destruction."

"Weapons are also instruments of defence: they might save your life, Ensign. Don't forget that," Malcolm corrected without venom. "By the way, remind me to schedule your target practice, when we get back," he teased back. "Your score is getting good, you don't want to lose your hand."

Everyone also knew of Hoshi's discomfort when it came to weapons. She was slowly getting over it under Malcolm's tutoring, but she'd still much rather handle ancient Klingon than a phase pistol.

"Woo-hoo!" Travis exclaimed, going into a narrow curve, which prompted Malcolm to shut his eyes again _and_ his mouth. "This pod is so much more manageable than before! What did you do to it?"

Trip grinned, as he braced against the sudden veering. "Nothin' much, really. A little tweak here, a little tweak there…"

"Barrel roll, Commander?"

Travis sounded openly hopeful.

"Set a course for that asteroid belt, Ensign," Trip ordered in a voice where warning rang clear.

* * *

"Acquiring a lock."

Trip watched the hint of a frown crease Malcolm's brow, the mark of total concentration. Not for the first time he found himself thinking that when the man was engaged in something he liked doing, the world might crumble around him and he would hardly notice.

"Ready," Malcolm announced a moment later. A note of smug satisfaction tinged his voice as he commented, "Targeting sensors are faster by one third of a second."

The Armoury Officer was dutifully waiting for orders, so Trip gave him the go-ahead. "Well, Lieutenant: show us what your improved weaponry can do," he said, with a little dance of his eyebrows.

"With pleasure, Sir."

Big or small, an explosion always lightened up Malcolm's mood and put a sparkle in his grey eyes.

They watched in silence the destruction of the hapless rock which had the bad luck of being in the same stretch of galaxy as Lieutenant Reed. That an innocent-looking beam could produce such a devastating effect was something of a shocking discovery every time, as far as Trip was concerned; and the fact that in space it all happened without a sound, made it all the more disturbing, somehow.

"Not too bad," Malcolm commented, breaking the moment of suspension. "It would be interesting to go for a smaller target," he suggested.

Trip caught Hoshi's pleading glance and took pity on her. "Yes, well, thank you, Lieutenant," he forestalled. "I'm sure you could shoot all of these rocks into the right pockets, so to speak, but maybe another day."

Relief and gratitude poured into the dark, almond eyes, just as all the excitement poured out of the grey ones.

"Commander, that asteroid belt isn't very thick," Travis butted in. "How about letting me have some fun? After all we haven't tested the helm controls in tight conditions." He turned to flash one of his enthusiastic grins. "A bit of acrobatic flying would really show us what this pod can do."

Trip eyed Mayweather's expectant face. If Malcolm's body language was always a bit restrained, this man could literally beam. "We don't want havin' to give this little jewel a fresh coat of paint when we get back, Travis," he warned.

"I can't promise I'll avoid every little speck of dust, but if I scratch the paint you can confine me to quarters for a week, Sir."

"Ah, no, I've got a better idea: if you scratch the paint you'll fix it. How about that?"

"Deal. Thank you, Commander," Travis agreed, with another one of his genial smiles.

Malcolm, restrained? Trip amended his previous thought – the Lieutenant was now glaring at him; but after all the man had just got his treat.

Hoshi grabbed her seat, once again looking ill-at-ease, and Trip remembered that the young linguist had just recently begun to find her space legs. She had once confided to him that maybe she ought to go back to her teaching. He almost regretted giving in to Travis's suggestion.

"And keep in mind that not everyone likes bein' shaken like a mat full of dust, Ensign," Trip added at the last moment. "So don't jiggle us any more than necessary."

Ah, bless his tender heart.

"Aye, aye, Sir."

"Mayday! Come in, Enterprise!"

Hoshi's voice was gritty. A bout of coughing racked her; smoke was beginning to fill the cabin, though there was no fire.

"I could've tested the transceiver array even without an emergency landing, Sir," she choked out. "In any case it doesn't seem to work."

Her voice quivered.

"Enterprise must be out of range, Hoshi," Trip replied.

His own voice sounded cool and collected enough, as befit a Commanding Officer, but tension had given it a hard edge, which he immediately felt sorry about: Hoshi had reacted to the words with a self-conscious frown, obviously taking them as a criticism.

"Thrusters only, Commander," Travis announced, all of his former happiness gone from his face and voice. "It's going to be a rough landing."

Malcolm had got up and was leaning over Trip's shoulder. One bent arm over his mouth and nose to protect his airways from the smoke, he studied the readings on their instruments.

"I think the exhaust ports are clogged," Trip managed to croak out against the tickling in his throat. His eyes were beginning to water. "And the engine overheated."

"I'll get the oxygen masks," Malcolm mumbled behind his arm.

"We're entering the atmosphere," Mayweather said. "Eight minutes to touchdown."

Trip caught Malcolm's arm. "No time." Finally giving in to coughing, he jerked his head towards the empty seat in a silent order, and the man complied, sitting down.

Reaching over, Trip clasped Travis's shoulder, in the only gesture of support he could think of. They were in his hands now, and though they couldn't be in better hands, he would have gladly done without this bit of excitement: testing their helmsman skills in such conditions had not been on their 'to do' list.

"We'll be okay, Hoshi," he turned to reassure the clearly frightened Ensign.

"Aye, Sir," she replied, biting her lip.

Proud of her flaunted courage, Trip gave her a pale smile. Then, with the official "brace for impact", he too bent over into the proper position.

As they rushed towards the barren land below, he had the time to think that for once it wasn't only Malcolm's feet that would get very pink.

TBC

Waiting for your comments! :-)


	3. Chapter 3

Thank you for your reviews.

§ 3 §

"Ouch!"

Hoshi watched Malcolm put a hand under Travis's chin and tilt his head a bit to the side, as he dabbed disinfectant onto a cut on the helmsman's cheekbone.

"'Tis but a scratch, Ensign."

"Not from where I stand, Sir," Travis countered flatly.

"You're not standing, Ensign."

Indeed Travis was sitting on a large rock. That's all there seemed to be on this dreary planet – rocks. Well, it could've been worse; it could've been water, or a forest filled with dangerous wild life.

From the rock she herself had collapsed upon after leaving the smoking pod some ten minutes before, Hoshi tried to get her body to stop trembling, as she looked on to the scene. It had been a scary experience, as the rough groove running for what must be at least a kilometre behind the pod, marking their 'landing strip', witnessed. It was kind of ridiculous to bicker about semantics, with all they had to worry about. But apparently her crewmates didn't think so.

"It hurts, Sir."

"Of course it does, Ensign. It's a _cut_."

"I thought you said it was a scratch."

Hoshi rolled her eyes. They could consider themselves lucky to have survived this with only a few bumps and bruises. And one cut. She herself had come away virtually unscathed. Malcolm… one never knew with Stoic Lieutenant Reed. As for Trip…

"Yup, the exhaust ports are clogged alright," the very man announced desolately, rounding the pod from astern. "And the engine has suffered some damage."

Not only the engine – Hoshi mused, watching him rub his left shoulder and wince.

Malcolm interrupted his first aid to shoot the Engineer a rather icy look. "One might have anticipated that," he said in a dark voice where a hint of sarcasm was noticeable.

"Oh, yeah?" Trip replied likewise, just an octave higher. "And how was _one_ supposed to do that? Crystal balls aren't Starfleet standard equipment yet." He snorted. "Might be wise to include such an upgrade in the next batch."

"One didn't need a crystal ball to predict that the dust from the asteroid I had just blown to smithereens would clog the exhaust ports."

Trip narrowed his eyes. "You could have raised the issue _then_, Lieutenant."

Hoshi sighed. Males. Butting heads instead of working together.

"I…" Malcolm faltered for a moment, then continued with renewed determination, "I didn't realise our zigzagging inside that asteroid belt was taking us through the debris from the rock I had destroyed, _Sir_."

"That was my fault. I should've plotted our course more carefully," Travis croaked out; but his contrite words fell on deaf ears.

"Oh – and how come ya didn't?" Trip went on confrontationally. "Were you takin' a nap?

Right; Malcolm, like her – Hoshi realised – had undoubtedly closed his eyes during Travis's acrobatic flying.

"Guys…" she tried, soothingly.

"Dreaming about _Stinky_?" Trip continued, ignoring her.

_Stinky_? Now Trip had lost her; Hoshi couldn't remember anyone by that peculiar name.

"Perhaps I thought you could be trusted to be in command, _Commander_," Malcolm spat out.

That arrow had definitely found its mark, judging by Trip's face. Hoshi shot Travis a puzzled frown, which he returned. This was hardly the Trip Tucker and Malcolm Reed they were used to. Enough was enough. She was still shaken and also a bit scared; she needed Commander Tucker and Lieutenant Reed; Trip and Malcolm would do. But not this… twisted copy of them.

Making her hands into tight fists, Hoshi filled her lungs with the rather pestilential air of the barren planet.

"GUYS!"

The two officers startled, as if they had forgotten that they weren't alone.

"Stop it," Hoshi added, going for a less hysterical tone of voice. "Please?"

The result was immediate; Malcolm snapped to attention.

"I apologise, Commander," he muttered, troubled grey gaze fixed straight ahead. "That was out of line."

Trip's blue eyes softened, into a strange expression that was a mix of regret and embarrassment.

"Forget it," he mumbled. "I guess I asked for it. We're all a bit upset, after that landing."

There was a pause of uncomfortable silence.

"_That_ _landing_?" Travis exclaimed, tongue-in-cheek. "I thought it was one of my best."

Bless the man and his sense of humour. Hoshi wondered what had really passed inside that Shuttlepod a few weeks before. No amount of Starfleet training could prepare one to see death in the face as Trip and Malcolm had. The experience had obviously marked them.

Trip jerked his head playfully to the side. "You scratched the paint, Travis."

"As well as yourself," Malcolm added, returning to tend to the helmsman's wound.

"Fussy," Travis muttered under his breath. His mouth started to curl up, but smiling obviously didn't agree with a cheekbone injury.

"Ouch!"

"Will you be still, Ensign? You're a terrible patient."

"Sorry, Sir."

That was better. Hoshi heaved a sigh of relief.

"Right, then." Trip passed a hand through his hair. "I guess I'll start purgin' the exhaust ports."

"What about that shoulder, Commander?" Malcolm asked, with a pointed look at the obviously sore spot in question. "Don't you want me to take a look at it first?"

"Nah, it's just a bump."

Malcolm looked unconvinced, but didn't comment. "I'll give you a hand in a moment," he called after Trip as he went off.

Yes, that was definitely better.

* * *

"Shuttlepod One to Enterprise. Come in, Enterprise." Hoshi smirked. She was beginning to feel frustrated and tired. Trip handed her a canteen, which she accepted with a grateful nod.

"Still no luck?" he enquired.

He and Malcolm had worked non-stop for the past hour. At least the exhaust ports were purged; now they were going to take a look at the engine damage.

Wiping a hand over her mouth after drinking the water, Hoshi heaved a deep sigh. "Enterprise must be still out of range."

Framed in the open hatch, Malcolm shrugged. "There are still seven and a half hours before our rendezvous. They must be quite far away yet," he said. He shot a glance at Trip; then added, "Don't worry, Ensign: soon we'll be airborne again. We have our Chief Engineer with us."

Optimism didn't come natural to Malcolm, and Hoshi thought his voice had betrayed how little faith he put in his own words.

"Yeah, provided the Chief Engineer has the right spare parts," Trip muttered dispiritedly under his breath.

Hoshi felt bad for the two of them. This misadventure came a bit too soon after the terrible one they had experienced a few weeks before on the same vessel.

"Anything I can do to help?" Travis enquired, hobbling into sight behind Malcolm.

His cheek sported a large dressing, and under it, it looked quite swollen. A bruise was developing too, and he had an arm wrapped around his midsection.

"Thanks, but you've already done your part, Ensign," Malcolm said. "You'd better take it easy."

It was maybe twenty minutes later that Trip closed the tool-box and passed an arm over his sweaty brow. "Sorry," he muttered to the rest of them looking on. "The impulse manifold is too badly damaged. I can't fix it here."

"Great." Malcolm crossed his arms over his chest. "Are we supposed to twiddle our thumbs on this inhospitable planet till Enterprise finds us?"

"You could always read _Ulysses_," Trip snapped. "If you have any other suggestions, feel free to share them with us."

Things were beginning to get tense again between the two. Hoshi was about to throw some water on the fire when a beep was heard and a light started to flash.

"They're hailing us," she said unnecessarily, for all eyes had turned to the console.

"Enterprise is back early," Malcolm said with a frown.

Hoshi opened the link. "Shuttlepod One. Go ahead Enterprise."

The voice that answered wasn't Captain Archer's or T'Pol's; and, what was more, it spoke no English."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to my readers and reviewers.

§ 4 §

"... Do you require assistance?" the UT finally caught on.

Trip felt Malcolm's eyes on him and turned to see him shoot a warning look, of the kind that said 'Definitely not: better safe than sorry'. Typical. Averting his gaze, he tried to clamp down on his irritation. This misadventure was making re-emerge some of the tension there had been between them on that fateful Shuttlepod One mission.

"This is Commander Tucker of Starfleet," he said through the open link. "Will you please identify yourself?"

"This is Commander Obne of the... Felon ship... A Shot In The Quadrant," the UT translated with a bit of difficulty, in a metallic voice.

"Brilliant," Malcolm snorted under his breath.

"We have picked up your vessel," Commander Obne continued. "This planet seems an odd place to make a stop at: do you require any assistance?"

"We... have had a minor problem with our engine," Trip replied noncommittally. "Thank you for the offer, but I think we'll be okay."

"Oh, but I insist, Commander," the voice pressed. "I wouldn't be a very good Felon if I left you with engine trouble on that barren rock."

"Who's ever heard of a _good felon_?" Malcolm muttered.

"Ah, no, really, we'll be fine," Trip began, but the alien Commander didn't even listen to him.

"We'll be landing in the vicinity of your vessel in approximately ten _noonortrth_," the cheerful voice piped in. "See you soon."

The link was cut off and Trip turned to his crew. "We have ten _noon…_ whatever to shine our boots," he quipped.

"I wouldn't joke about it," Malcolm ranted. "These are not ideal conditions to make a first contact. Especially with a species bearing such an inauspicious name. Oh, and lovely designation for a ship too."

"Come on, Malcolm, you can't be that biased, for heaven's sake!"

There it was again, that damned pessimism that grated on his nerves; like a few weeks before, when the man had driven him to distraction by counting them dead before time, and recording his good-byes to half the girls in San Francisco.

There was a clearing of the throat. "I can't say I'm looking forward to this either, Commander," Hoshi said. "Even if those guys were called... _Cherubs_ and were travelling on... _Pink Cloud_."

Trip drew in a deep breath and blew it slowly out. "Look, there's nothin' we can do about it. You heard them; they didn't take no for an answer. So, let's prepare to receive them."

Someone was already doing so; by rummaging in the compartment under one of the rear benches.

"Good thing I insisted with the Captain to make a phase pistol for each person on board standard equipment," Malcolm said, straightening again. He started to distribute the weapons.

Hoshi took hers with obvious reluctance. "Must I really?"

_Good luck convincing our Security Officer of the contrary_, Trip thought. He conveyed the idea with a lift of his eyebrows and a light shrug.

"Of course, Ensign," Malcolm indeed replied, strapping on his own pistol. "Your score entitles you to carry one."

"Shooting at a target is different," Hoshi commented, looking at the weapon in her hands in discomfort. "I really wouldn't want to hurt anyone."

"We'll keep the pistols set on stun," Trip butted in. "Don't worry, Hoshi. I doubt we'll even have to use them. These people are probably the Good Samaritans of the galaxy."

"I sure hope so," Travis muttered. "I've already had my share of bruises for one day."

* * *

A Shot In The Quadrant was the ugliest ship Trip had seen in a long while. It was a graceless grey oblong thing, not much bigger than their Shuttlepod, which had certainly seen better days. Its hull was all banged up and stained – probably rusty. If these were their _saviours_, then heaven help them!

The vessel landed with a rough bump which made Mayweather raise both eyebrows.

"Holy mackerel!" the helmsman exclaimed. "No wonder that hull is in such bad shape."

The dust raised by such a _graceful_ landing hadn't finished settling down again when the hatch started to open with the hair-raising screech of badly-oiled mechanisms. Malcolm automatically took position in front of everyone, hand resting on the handle of his phase pistol.

"I don't need you to protect me, Lieutenant," Trip muttered, trying to overtake him. "I can look after myself." A flash of Malcolm dragging him down from the airlock at gunpoint went through his mind, and he felt a stab of guilt, which he quickly pushed aside.

"I'm only doing my job, Commander," Malcolm replied with determination, getting in front of him again.

"Ah, Commander Tucker!" a gleeful voice interrupted.

It belonged to a man who was, possibly, even more ungainly than his ship. Short and round, he wore a bright shirt with large yellow and orange vertical stripes, tucked into a pair of dark green pants. Tall boots and a black sash made him look a bit like a pirate of the old days, a resemblance which was emphasised by the ear-ring on his left lobe. Trip was almost disappointed not to see a sabre hanging from his side. He had loved pirate stories as a kid.

The man approached with a purposeful gait, his large belly swaying. There was a mad quality to him. It wasn't only his outfit: there was a spirited glint in his dark eyes. These were framed by tanned stripes that, crossing his temples, lost themselves into curly red hair. On the whole it was quite a garish sight.

"It's a pleasure," the Felon exclaimed, stopping in front of Malcolm and raising both arms to form a sort of triangle over his head, fingertips touching.

Malcolm studied him straight-faced and as still as a statue. "Good day," he said, oozing distrust.

"Actually, I am Commander Tucker." Trip feigned a step to the left; then quickly by-passed Malcolm on the right. "You must be..."

"Commander Obne." The glittering gaze shifted a couple of times between Trip and Malcolm.

"This is Lieutenant Reed," Trip provided, waving a thumb in acknowledgement of the man's puzzlement. "Our Security Officer."

"Security? Are you expecting trouble?" Obne looked behind him, to a couple of his crewmates, just as round and short and obnoxiously outfitted as he, who had come out of A Shot In The Quadrant. "You didn't think _we_ were trouble, did you?"

"Ah, you know," Trip mumbled. "Just a precaution."

Obne broke into a loud, infectious laugh, which was echoed by his men and brought a smile to everyone's lips but Malcolm's. He must teach the damn man to relax a little – Trip mused. These people seemed very sociable. But then again, that was probably why Malcolm didn't like them.

"These are Ensigns Hoshi Sato, our Communications Officer; and Travis Mayweather, our helmsman," Trip continued the introductions.

Obne sobered up and repeated the greeting gesture, which Hoshi mirrored, imitated, more tentatively, by Travis.

"A _gwèp_?" the alien wondered, the UT stumbling over the word.

Trip frowned. "Gwèp?"

"Gwèp," Obne repeated, pointing to Hoshi.

"A woman, I suppose," Hoshi provided with a shrug.

"A woman soldier?" Obne broke into peals of laughter again. "That is unheard of!"

"Maybe where you come from," Malcolm muttered darkly to the side.

Trip quickly butted in, "Actually, we aren't really _soldiers_. We're explorers." He shifted his gaze from one Felon to the next, repressing the desire to shield his eyes against the gaudy colours of the ensemble. Let anyone call his Hawaiian shirts loud again.

"Explorers with a broken ship." The alien Commander ended his laughter in a wide smile that bared two rows of crooked teeth. "We must set this right again. Allow us to give you a hand."

"Commander." Malcolm's voice meant business. "May I have a word with you? In private."

"You aren't going to let them into the Shuttlepod, are you?" he was asking tensely a moment later. "Get their podgy hands on the engine's schematics and--"

"Relax, Malcolm," Trip interrupted him. "We're talkin' about an impulse drive, here. It's hardly a military secret!"

"Still, we know nothing about these Felons."

Watching Malcolm cross his hands over his chest and shoot a thoughtful look to the side in typical Reed fashion, Trip took a moment to consider his words. He was tempted to accept these people's help.

"Alright," he conceded at last. "I won't let them inside the pod; but maybe they have what I need to fix the engine: no harm asking, right?"

"Right," Malcolm agreed after a moment's hesitation. "Though I doubt they carry many spare parts with them, judging by that bucket of bolts they call a ship."

"Never judge by the looks," Trip joked, with a conciliatory smile.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "I suppose."

"Commander..." he then quickly put in, as Trip was about to return to Obne and his men. "I've been kind of..." An uncomfortable smirk appeared on his face. "I apologise," he finally croaked out. "I believe subconsciously I'm still a bit shaken by our… misadventure."

"Yeah, me too," Trip said with a grimace. "I guess it takes more than a warm blanket and a few hours of sleep to get over what we went through." He saw Malcolm shift self-consciously on his feet, so he added, "Come on, let's see if these Felons can get us off this rock. I don't really want the Capt'n to find us here like this."

Malcolm's eyebrows shot up. "No arguments there," he replied.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

"The coil is damaged?" Obne turned questioningly to one of his men, who had straight silver hair reaching almost to his shoulders.

"I'd have to have a look," the man said gruffly. He licked his lips like someone looking forward to making a quick snack of something.

Trip waved a hand. "Are you an Engineer?"

Tilting his head, the man regarded him as he would a poor imbecile. "Why, what else do I look like?" he asked in mild sarcasm.

Malcolm had 'don't make me say it' written all over his face, and indeed Trip could think of a few imaginative replies to that question. He quickly averted his gaze from the Lieutenant, in the effort to stifle a burst of laughter, which would definitely confirm the alien's poor opinion of him. He felt like the kid in school who can't look at his buddy without breaking down into giggles.

"Don't be silly, Tego," Obne exclaimed, giving his man a friendly – and nearly lung-damaging – pat on the back. "Commander Tucker cannot know our traditions." He turned to Trip. "Our engineers all wear their hair long."

Trip jerked his chin up slightly. "Oh." Feeling a smile tug at his mouth, he didn't trust himself to say more; someone else, however, did.

"Peculiar," Malcolm commented, perfectly serious. "Doesn't it get in the way?"

Tego shot him a pitying look, and didn't deign him of a reply. "Where is this coil, then?" he asked instead, starting towards the pod.

"Ah, actually…"

With a couple of fast steps, Trip caught up with him.

"I've removed it from its lodging, so if you wait here I'll--"

"I'd better have a look at the rest of the engine too," Tego cut him off.

"Wait!"

The firm monosyllable had the same effect as a red traffic light – everyone stopped. All eyes turned to the man who had pronounced it.

"I'm sorry," Trip went on, in a more conciliatory tone. "We are grateful for your offer to help us, but... Well, let's say that we too have our traditions; I can't allow you or anyone else inside our Shuttlepod."

Looking around, he noticed that the faces of their _saviours_ had turned threateningly dark, and he was glad when he felt Malcolm come up beside him. The Lieutenant's stance was not to be mistaken. Hoshi and Travis also joined them.

Obne's eyes shifted from one to the other. "Of course," he eventually relented, a smile cracking his mask. "No need to get upset. We're only here to lend a hand, after all."

"Good." Trip started to relax again. "I'll get that coil, then."

* * *

"Trip, bloody hell, wake up!"

Oh, for heaven's sake! Didn't a man deserve to sleep in peace? "Call Rostov," Trip drawled, turning to the other side. He couldn't be expected to be on duty for twenty-four hours a day.

"_What_? Rostov isn't here. Open your eyes, Commander!"

And couldn't they page him, instead of shaking him brutally like a--

Something dug into his ribs, and Trip reached to remove it. _A rock? _His eyes shot open. Malcolm's darker than usual gaze was boring into him from disturbingly close.

"Finally. How are you feeling?"

Trip blinked a couple of times. "Why are ya askin'?" he wondered. The moment he tried to sit up it became quite clear. His breath caught and he reached to a sore spot behind his right shoulder.

"Ouch."

Malcolm helped him. "Yes, ouch. If it's any consolation, you're in good company," he said grimly. "I don't know what weapon they used, and where the hell they kept it, but at least it was set to stun."

"_I_ know," Hoshi piped in. She was sitting cross-legged not far from Trip. Her face was set in an angry frown, and she too was massaging her shoulder. "I saw that Obne fellow raise his hand, and a beam came out of the ring he was wearing. He shot the two of you from behind, and then..." Hoshi shrugged, her mouth twitching in a lopsided smirk. "Before I could do anything, Travis and I had joined you in Oblivion Land."

"I'm sorry, Commander," Travis mumbled, from the other side. He was still lying on the ground and didn't sound very much with it yet.

Trip tried to roll his shoulder, but gave up with a grimace. "Great," he muttered. "Now both my shoulders hurt."

Blowing out a breath, Malcolm informed him, in his deep voice, "That's not all the bad news."

One knee on the ground, he was cradling his right arm, which looked limp. "You okay?" Trip asked in concern.

"Yeah. The beam must have hit a nerve; my arm is a bit numb," Malcolm replied with a dismissive shrug. "But those bloody Felons lived up to their name."

Trip reluctantly turned to acknowledge that something rather conspicuous was missing.

Hoshi said it out loud. "They took the Shuttlepod."

A Shot In The Quadrant stood a few metres away, in all its ugliness. Of their own pod no trace remained, other than the landing groove it had dug in the ground.

"I can't believe it," Trip breathed out.

Malcolm let out a sarcastic huff of a laugh. "Good Samaritans!"

Now that his concern about their health had been filed away, the Lieutenant's face hardened in ill-repressed irritation.

"I told you we shouldn't have trusted them," he spat out.

"And I followed your recommendations," Trip countered, a bit too loud. A lancing pain split his head, and he grabbed it, pressing on his throbbing temples. "It looks like they fixed the engine problem, though," he added, through gritted teeth.

"A lot of good that has done us!"

"Guys, please!" Hoshi begged once more. "We should start thinking of what to do."

It sounded disturbingly familiar. Trip saw that Malcolm was thinking the same thing, that he too had been transported by the words to their previous nearly deadly mission. He captured his friend's gaze, in a silent offering of peace. Malcolm acknowledged it and fell silent.

"We don't have many options," the Lieutenant said, after a moment. "Unless we try and fly off in that… oversized bullet, we'll have to wait for Enterprise to find us."

"Why not?" Travis wondered. He had slowly picked himself up to a sitting position, and looked suddenly more awake.

"Well, I don't really fancy the Captain finding us stranded here," Malcolm said darkly.

Travis shook his head. "No, I mean: _why not_?" His swollen face was gradually becoming more animated, that mad Mayweather glint entering his eyes.

"Why not what?" Trip asked warily.

"I bet I can fly A Shot In The Quadrant," Travis said, visibly repressing a grimace as he tried to sit straighter.

"You can barely stand, Travis," Trip made him notice.

"I won't have to: I'm counting on the fact that even _that_ ship might have a pilot's seat, Sir."

Hoshi bit her lip. "I vote for waiting for Enterprise," she said, eyes silently pleading.

As he opened and closed his right hand to try and get some feeling back into it, Malcolm's gaze narrowed in thought. "They took the Shuttlepod because it was obviously in better condition than that rusted bathtub they left behind," he reasoned. "But their ship ought to have warp drive, while our pod hasn't."

"They probably mean to outfit it with a warp engine as a next step," Trip said. "What are you gettin' at?" he enquired, with a puzzled frown.

The smile that appeared on Malcolm's lips was somewhat feral.

"We'll get A Shot In The Quadrant to fly, catch up with them, and re-conquer our pod," he said resolutely.

Trip shook his head, unconvinced. "Aren't ya forgetting those – and I quote – _brilliant_ _upgrades to the weapons' system_ that you made? I doubt A Shot In The Quadrant has very good shielding."

"We have the best pilot in Starfleet to keep us out of range. Besides," Malcolm added with a mysterious dance of the eyebrows, "Remember that idea of yours? The upgrades to the weapons aren't the only ones I made."

Trip's eyes went wide. In sickbay, after they had nearly frozen to death, he had told Malcolm in jest that... No, Malcolm would have told him if he had... He would have, wouldn't he?

He tilted his head. "Ya don't mean to tell me that you actually..." He didn't need to finish the sentence; the answer was written all over Malcolm's face.

Narrowing his eyes, the Lieutenant challenged, "Do you prefer that the Captain finds us here, like this?"

Trip had to admit; that, once again, was a rather convincing argument.

TBC

Looking forward, as always, to your comments!


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

A Shot was even drabber inside than outside. Hoshi couldn't repress a grimace of disgust as they passed a small room which nobody, alas, could ever doubt was the ship's mess. Hygiene apparently wasn't something Felons cultivated.

Taking a hobbling step inside it, Travis picked up a plate – one of many left dirty on the tables – containing the leftovers of a red gooey substance. "Wow, alien jell-o," he stated with child-like awe, his face lighting up. He tilted the plate but the food remained cemented in place. "Not something for delicate stomachs," he said with a wince.

"Probably what they used to fix the coil," was Trip's flat comment.

Malcolm darted a glance, before returning to the readings on his scanner. "I'd put it down, Ensign, if I were you," he calmly interjected. "Might be hazardous."

Travis quickly replaced the plate on the table and wiped his hands clean on his pants.

As they proceeded towards the front of the ship, Hoshi was struck by a thought. "Those Felons certainly got themselves a newer vessel," she reasoned, taking in the squalid surroundings. "But our pod isn't exactly designed for long voyages. It has no mess hall, for example; no galley."

"Wait until they realise they have no toilet either," Trip shot back over his shoulder.

"Oh, dear." Hoshi's eyes went wide. "Are we sure we _want_ to get our pod back?"

Malcolm's head came up abruptly. "Let's get a move on," he urged, obviously struck by the implications. "Toilet – definitely the next upgrade," he muttered to himself.

"Along with the crystal ball?" Trip suggested.

One of his charming hundred-watts smiles took the sting out of the words, and Hoshi was glad to see the hint of a smile cross also Malcolm's face. It seemed those two had signed a truce.

There was something to say for A Shot In The Quadrant – Hoshi mused: its space was well-organised. It might not be a large or particularly nice ship, but everything was there and, especially, things where one expected to find them.

As Trip disappeared in what was quite unmistakably the engine room, the rest of them proceeded to the bridge, which they found on the top of the vessel's two decks, right in the centre of it. It was small and cramped, and not very state-of-the-art-looking, but the moment Travis set foot on it, he seemed to have no doubts as to which direction to take. He plonked himself down with a grunt on a chair right up front and let his fingers hover over the levers and buttons within easy reach. His face once again lit up, with anticipation.

Leaning over his shoulder, Hoshi studied the alien commands. "I think that means 'thrusters'," she said, pointing to the writing near a knob. Sometimes she didn't know herself how she could tell; things just seemed to click in her mind. The more alien languages she learned, the easier it got, anyway; Felon, as it happened, bore a faint resemblance to Nausicaan.

"And this should be navigation," Travis added, switching a display on. "Yeah. Got it."

His seat creaked quite ominously under his weight as he shifted. Malcolm, who was looking around with a critical eye, grimaced. "Let's hope they've kept the engine more oiled than the chairs," he commented. Just then his communicator chirped. He reached into his arm pocket and retrieved it, flicking it open with practised ease.

"Engine room to Bridge," Trip's voice paged; it had an uplifting ring to it. "I think I know how to get this old iron off this rock," the Engineer said. "Tell Travis to give a whistle when he feels ready to fly it, and I'll give him engine power."

A satisfied smile appeared on the helmsman's lips. "Understood, Commander," he called back. "Just a few more minutes."

"I'll need a hand here, Hoshi."

Hoshi joined Malcolm, who was studying a console with a concentrated frown.

"This is clearly the tactical station," he said.

"Uhm, if you say so, Sir."

"Now, though," Malcolm continued, holding his chin. His grey eyes had become mere slots. "I can't decide if that button is to bring the phaser weapons online and this to launch torpedoes, or the other way round. Any idea, Ensign?"

When she had taken up a career as a linguist, Hoshi would have never thought she'd have to translate the commands of an alien spaceship's tactical station. But the answer was actually quite easy.

"This word," – she pointed to a writing – "Has the same root as the one that means 'thrusters': I suppose it might indicate 'expulsion', 'launch'."

"Torpedoes," Malcolm concluded with a sharp nod. "Thank you, Hoshi. I think I can figure the rest out myself."

"You're not going to shoot on our Shuttlepod, are you, Sir?" Hoshi felt the need to ask.

Malcolm gave her a weird look. "Of course not. Shields... shields..." he continued, totally focussed on the console again.

"That word has a vague resemblance to the Nausicaan for 'cover'," Hoshi offered with a shrug.

"Nausicaan?" Travis turned abruptly.

Hoshi shrugged. "Different as they look, Felons and Nausicaans seem to have something in common," she said.

"Bloody hell, yes," Malcolm spat out. "Pirates, both of them." He studied the switch. "Shields, then," he muttered to himself.

"Ah – actually..." Hoshi bit her lip, suddenly uncertain. There were too many knobs and levers and switches, and way too many ways she could interpret them wrongly. "That knob," she said, pointing to a switch close to the previous one, "Is marked something like..." She paused, looking for the right word. "Insulation."

"Marvellous," was the sighed comment.

* * *

When they finally lifted off the planet's surface, it was with a couple of embarrassing bounces. Under his dark complexion and his bruises, Travis was probably blushing with shame.

"Trying to put your personal signature on the hull, Ensign?" Malcolm teased him, cutting the tense silence.

"Sorry," Travis muttered self-consciously. "I need to get a feel for these commands."

Malcolm eyed his own series of buttons and levers with perplexion. "Indeed," he said, with a lift of his eyebrows.

Leaving the planet's atmosphere was an interesting experience – of the kind Hoshi hoped she'd never have to live again. The vessel's helm was – Travis swore – very sensitive. So was Hoshi, in various parts of her body, after the umpteenth time she was knocked about. At some point she just dropped to sit on the floor and wedged herself into a corner, hugging her drawn-up legs. Her only comfort was that she was in good company, for Malcolm was holding on for dear life to a pole that stood in the middle of the Bridge; the turbulence had made him go very pale.

The ship vibrated and rang with a low hum, as if the strain was too much for her battered hull, and it would come apart any time. Hoshi blocked her ears and closed her eyes, wishing this was only a bad dream.

"Warp 2 is her top speed," Trip announced, staggering onto the Bridge like a drunk. "But she's not such a bad little ship, engine-wise."

He looked totally unconcerned about the shuddering, or Travis's unsteady piloting. A sudden tilt sent him crashing against the bulkhead, eliciting a grunt when his previously banged-up shoulder connected with it.

"Touchy commands," Travis said, wincing apologetically.

Finally they left the atmosphere, and things got a bit smoother. Hoshi accepted Trip's help and got to her feet. "See if you can figure out how to use the transceiver," the Commander said, with an encouraging smile. "I wanna give those Felons a--"

"Aha!" Malcolm exclaimed, interrupting him. "I've got long-range sensors." A tight giggle escaped his throat. It was a sound of triumph. "I see them. Bearing nine, five, seven, mark three, Ensign." With a knowing glance at Trip he added, "And they don't seem to be moving. They can't escape us now." The colour had returned to his cheeks.

Trip leaned over Travis's shoulder. "Go, Ensign. Engage the warp drive. Let's get what's ours back."

"Aye, aye, Sir."

Travis input the coordinates; his hand hesitated just one moment over a couple of levers. Then it dropped on them and pulled. A Shot In The Quadrant responded… Just not the way they had expected.

TBC

You didn't think it would be that easy, did you? ;-)


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

As he settled into the Captain's chair Archer mused that it had been a satisfying day of exploration. The M-class planet had been a relaxing experience, for once. And not, as a nasty little voice suggested, because of the absence of trouble-magnets such as Trip and Malcolm. No, no, he wouldn't acknowledge the thought. It wasn't fair to the two officers. Maybe, though, it was time to check on them, see if they were on schedule for their rendezvous.

"Hail Shuttlepod One, Ensign," he ordered Hoshi's replacement. Leaning in contentment with both hands on his knees, he felt the picture of the successful Starfleet Captain. Everything under control.

Ensign Paskowsky, a pretty brunette with intense green eyes, sat straighter in her seat and immediately set to work. She had that look about her which one found on inexperienced junior officers – a blend of excitement and apprehension, sprinkled with eagerness to please.

Seconds ticked by, and all eyes gradually turned to the comm. station, where a frown had come to crease the young Ensign's wide brow. This time Archer was powerless against the nasty little voice and its malicious whisperings.

"Something wrong?" he enquired. That well-known tightness threatened to form in his stomach.

"Well, Sir..." Paskowsky stuttered.

Archer felt a sudden urge to shoot up from his seat but restrained himself – this was a young girl, manning the Comm. station on A shift probably for the first time; she would take the move as a criticism. Besides, she could do without witnessing her Captain's paranoia. He forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile on his lips. "In your own words, Ensign," he egged on.

"I am getting a strange language, Captain. It almost sounds like... Nausicaan," Paskowsky said, a little hesitantly.

"Na..." Archer's voice failed him as images of the fierce pirates with whom they had come into contact not long before while assisting an Earth freighter ship crowded in his mind. He hoped he'd never see their ugly faces again – or anything resembling them.

"Are you certain you are hailing our Shuttlepod, Ensign?" T'Pol enquired with typical Vulcan composure.

It was the kind of question that would have got on Hoshi's nerves, but Paskowsky didn't seem offended.

"Yes, Ma'am," she simply replied.

Archer cleared his throat. "Put it through," he ordered.

Indeed, the sounds that suddenly filled the Bridge were no variety of English, not even of the spiky and sometimes unintelligible kind spoken by their resident Brit. Archer looked at his Science Officer, hoping she would somehow find a logical explanation. All she did, was offer a reasonable suggestion.

"Try the UT, Ensign."

"It isn't Nausicaan," Paskowky said after a moment. The poor girl had probably been proud to have been chosen for the A shift. Until now.

"...Please acknowledge," the UT suddenly picked up. "Human ship, how in the _qèpweihg_ do you get the _jwiuegn_ on this vessel to work? Please acknowledge."

Archer felt a small nerve at the corner of his eye twitch. Whatever had happened, he didn't want to know. A part of him just wanted to leave the Bridge and go to sleep. Maybe he could ask Phlox to put him into a coma until the away party was back. Preferably with the pod. But even without. As long as they were back in one piece. Fortunately, the other part of him – the Captain in command – took over, and he found himself standing, ready to face whatever was about to be thrown at him. He filled his lungs with air, squaring his shoulders.

"Put me through," he said, in a deceivingly calm and resolute voice. A moment later Pawskosky's nod silently informed him that a channel was open.

"This is Enterprise," Archer barked. "Please identify yourself."

"Ah, good! I suppose you are the Captain," the same voice replied, in a jovial tone that held an undercurrent of tension.

"I know who I am," Archer growled. "The question is: who the hell are you?"

"Easy, Captain," the voice replied soothingly. "My name is Obne, and I'm a Felon."

What could one say to that innocent admission of guilt? The man had raised the Black Jack. Archer was momentarily left without words.

"Felons are a species distantly related to the Nausicaans," T'Pol quietly provided, taking advantage of the pause.

Ah. Well, that didn't change things by much. "What are you doing in our Shuttlepod? Where are my officers?" Archer angrily demanded.

"A small misunderstanding, Captain," Obne replied condescendingly.

Were his teeth chattering, or was the transmission disturbed?

"We borrowed your vessel, so to speak, but are ready to give it back. We have come to realise that it doesn't really suit our needs. Would you kindly tell us how to--"

"Where are my men?" Archer cut him off. He couldn't believe his ears: _borrowed_ the Shuttlepod!

"Captain, please. We can explain everything. But how do you raise the _jwiuegn_ on this ship?"

Archer cast a questioning glance to Paskowsky, who swallowed hard.

"And even more urgently," Obne continued, "Doesn't your species need, once in a while, to – well, you know... Where in _Hioanet_'s name do you do it?"

* * *

An untamed horse was probably more docile than A Shot In The Quadrant right now. Indeed, riding a bull in one of those silly Yankee rodeos was probably less traumatic on one's backbone. The bloody ship was proceeding by what felt like leaps and bounds, tossing them about like... A ridiculous image dawned in Malcolm's mind, one of a giant barman's hand holding a huge shaker. Surely this was what it must feel to be turned into a Bloody Mary. The thought only made things worse. Tightening his lips against the sudden roiling in his stomach,he silently cursed himself. _Don't think of liquids, you sodding nitwit!_

"Dammit," Trip echoed loudly from a nondescript spot on the floor, as he tried for the third or fourth time to gain an upright position. "What did ya do to get her so upset, Travis?"

Malcolm dared a glance at their helmsman. His usually playful features were rigid and drawn and – what was even less reassuring – he was banging away at the alien commands randomly, all the while endeavouring to keep himself on the pilot's chair.

"I haven't got a clue," the man cried out. "I was sure those were the levers for the warp drive. She's gone wild and I haven't got a damn idea how to regain control of her."

Now, that was something you never, ever wanted to hear from the person at the helm.

Malcolm groaned under his breath. It was good that he had had a light breakfast that morning. He'd be very embarrassed to give a public display of his motion sickness problem. Holding the edge of the tactical console so hard that he wouldn't be surprised if he left dents in it, he checked on Hoshi: she had stolen the pole from him, and he missed it greatly, but he was glad to see her safely wrapped around it. Also a bit envious, if truth be told, though the pole was the best thing to embrace, under the circumstances.

_Umph_. Trip once again lost his balance and came crashing against him, his arms tackling Malcolm roughly around the waist. Now, _his_ hug he could have done without.

"Can't you take the bloody engine offline?" Malcolm barked over his shoulder, as he tottered perilously under the added weight.

"Yeah, if only I could reach the engine room without knocking myself unconscious," Trip bit back.

A blip began flashing on the tactical diagram, catching their attention.

"Hey, isn't that's our pod?" the Engineer wondered. "Aha!" he added triumphantly, "It looks dead in the water. And..." Trip's voice suddenly became frantic. "We're on a collision course with it! Do somethin', Travis!"

Travis was still uselessly banging away at all that was within reach. "This damn helm is not responding!"

Another, bigger blip entered the picture.

"And that..." Trip's voice got even more alarmed. "Enterprise?"

"Enterprise?" Hoshi echoed, in a much happier tone.

Malcolm was more inclined to share the Engineer's apprehension than Hoshi's delight. Müller's finger must be itching to fire on the wild vessel on a collision course with their pod right now. If they didn't manage to speak to their ship, Archer might well decide to grant him the pleasure.

"The cavalry's here," he said darkly. "But we're on the wrong ship. You've got to find a way to tell them, Hoshi."

The young linguist's smile fell, replaced by bleak realization. "Right."

"Shields, shields," Malcolm mumbled, hand hesitating over those two commands. Cover or insulation? Insulation or cover? He'd have to trust his instincts. "Shields," he decided, going for the one labelled 'insulation'. Nothing seemed to happen, and he took that as a good sign.

As Hoshi warily started to untangle herself from the pole a loud and shrill intermittent sound filled the small Bridge.

Malcolm winced. "And I thought my sister's screaming was piercing." He briefly considered letting go of the console to block his ears, but quickly dismissed the idea.

The offending sound came from something that looked like a sponge. A throbbing, bleeping sponge to the right of the helm. Travis was staring at it in disgust, almost as if it were a live creature.

"Could it be the Comm.?" Trip wondered, over the din.

As soon as she ventured to take a half step away from her safe grip, Hoshi ended up draped on the noisy piece of unidentified equipment.

Malcolm shut his eyes tightly: with their luck she had just activated Self-destruct. At least they would go into oblivion with their eardrums intact, for the irksome sound had stopped. To their surprise, a well-known voice, instead, filled the small Bridge.

"Everyone okay?"

Malcolm had to admit to himself that it also filled his heart. Embarrassing as the whole thing was, the Captain would transport them out and he'd be saved the additional humiliation of passing out in front of his friends and colleagues. His nausea was clawing at him mercilessly, making him light-headed.

It was Trip who reacted first to the unexpected.

"More or less, Capt'n," the Engineer replied, with a grimace that carried in his voice. "If you knew where to find us, then I suppose you also know that..."

"Yes, yes," Archer interrupted him. "Listen to me, Travis: you must deactivate that vessel's anti-robbery device."

Malcolm felt Trip's eyes on him, but was too sick to acknowledge the message he knew must be in them. His focus was all on convincing his stomach not to divorce from its contents.

"Sir?" Travis blurted out.

"Under your seat: you'll find a small wheel. Turn it counter-clockwise all the way."

"Yes, Sir."

The ship's flight gradually smoothed, and a collective groan of relief lifted. Travis, finally in control of the helm, went to Full Stop. Silence had never felt so wonderful.

"Thank you, Capt'n," Trip blew out, shoulders sagging as his muscles relaxed. "We owe you one."

"I'll see to it that you pay up," Archer threatened, but the relief in his own voice took the sting out of the words. After a moment, he added, "I thought you and Malcolm had made Shuttlepod One into a little jewel. Heat control seems to be acting up: those Felons are freezing in there." As an aside, he commented, "At least it's them and not you, this time."

Now that his stomach was slowly recovering, Malcolm could no longer escape Trip's eyes. He met the blue gaze and drew in a steadying breath. "This is Reed, Sir," he croaked out, cringing. "What those people are experiencing is... a security upgrade, so to speak."

A beat of silence ensued.

"Would you care to expound, Lieutenant?"

There was a curious mix of amusement and irritation in Archer's voice, as if the man weren't sure whether a commendation or reprimand was due. Malcolm automatically straightened his shoulders; then silently cursed himself. Even if Archer could see him, standing as straight as a pole wouldn't change the fact that he ought to have run the idea by the Captain, before implementing it.

"It's... our own anti-robbery device, Sir," he explained, choosing the words carefully and wrapping them in as sweet a tone as his pride allowed. "After our misadventure, it occurred to Commander Tucker and me that a rigid environment would make a good deterrent for anyone who wanted to steal our pod. Moreover, when the temperature drops below a certain degree, systems start to fail. Eventually the Shuttlepod stops, preventing the robbers to escape with it."

"I see. And how do you deactivate this... _contraption_, Lieutenant?" Archer enquired with suspicious kindness.

Here came the sore spot. "I still have to work on that," Malcolm admitted hoarsely. "I believe the best thing would be if we docked with the Shuttlepod and... _exchanged_ _hostages_, as it were."

An audible sigh came out of the comm. link. "Proceed," Archer ordered.

TBC

Looking forward to your comments!


	8. Chapter 8

Thank you to all of you who have read, and especially to my reviewers. I hope you will leave a last comment.

§ 8 §

As he walked along the corridor to Sickbay, Archer endeavoured to slow his pace and relax his tense muscles. There was no more reason to worry, after all: the away team was back and so was the Shuttlepod; and all more or less in good shape. Besides, he should be used to this by now – more often than not Sickbay was an obligatory stop after an away mission, and not just because it was near the decon chamber. If the away mission included Malcolm and Trip, then, one or both would unfailingly require Phlox's care. It was becoming a bit too predictable. With all the worry lines those two gave him, soon he'd look older than his age.

As he approached the infirmary doors, they opened to let Hoshi out. The Ensign's face lit up in a smile as soon as she saw him. Archer let his eyes roam discreetly over her body: no obvious injuries could be seen, thank God.

"Captain," Hoshi greeted him happily.

"Are you all right, Ensign?" Archer asked all the same. He wanted to make sure. He felt particularly responsible for this member of the crew, because he had been the one who had insisted on having her on board as his Comm. officer.

"Yes, Sir, thank you," she replied. "Only a few minor bumps."

She looked tired and a bit dishevelled; strands of her dark hair had escaped her usually neat pony tail, and her eyes were circled. Archer gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

"I'm glad," he told her in fatherly tones. His eyes lifted to the Sickbay door behind her, in anticipation of what he might find in there.

"Captain."

"Yes?"

Archer's eyes returned to the linguist. She looked hesitant, but also determined. That was Hoshi all right, delicate but strong. Archer narrowed his gaze and tilted his head. "Go ahead, Ensign," he encouraged her.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "The Commander and Lieutenant... None of it was their fault, really. Bad luck played a big part."

"Yeah, they never leave her at home," Archer commented, deadpan. "I thought you were going to ask me never to send you on an away mission with the two of them again."

An impish smile brought two endearing dimples at the sides of Hoshi's mouth. "Weeell," she drew out, "With them one is always sure to get enough excitement." Her smile fell as she added, "They, uhm, didn't need another mission going awry so soon after the other one, Sir, if you know what I mean."

Archer liked this crew. He was proud of the way they looked after each other: here was Hoshi trying to tell him to take it easy on the boys. At the same time the words struck him hard. He should have realised Trip and Malcolm needed more time to recover from their first misadventure. He should have been able to see through their front, been more attuned to their feelings.

"Get a good rest, Ensign," he said, his gaze softening in a silent thank you, as he dismissed her with a nod.

When he went through the doors, the first thing he noticed was Travis's face: it was black and blue, and a plaster stood out on one of his cheeks. The man was sitting on a biobed facing the door, both hands gripping the edge of it as Phlox passed his medical scanner over him. Behind him, Trip and Malcolm were looking on, one on each side like a couple of improbable guardian angels. All three raised their eyes to the sound of the doors swishing open. Phlox only cast a quick glance over his shoulder and returned to his job.

"Gentlemen," Archer greeted the ensemble, keeping his tone neutral.

"Capt'n," Trip said, while Malcolm immediately took a more formal stance. Travis straightened his shoulders and a groan escaped his lips.

"Ensign Mayweather has a couple of cracked ribs, and various bruises, Captain," Phlox informed him with his unfailing glee.

Archer still remembered how weird his mirth-at-all-costs had seemed at the beginning of their mission; as if the man were rejoicing with every injury he had to treat.

"He also collected a cut, which Lieutenant Reed treated on the planet quite competently," he continued. "I recommend the Ensign stays off duty for at least a day; better two."

A groan of displeasure welcomed the words.

"As for Lieutenant Reed and Commander Tucker," Phlox continued, with a silencing glance at the protesting helmsman, "they seem to be fine, aside for a few bumps. All of them suffered stun blasts, Ensign Sato included, but they were mild ones."

"Capt'n, I can explain," Trip began, tail between his legs. "It was a small glitch with the engine."

"It was my fault, Sir," Malcolm – of course – proclaimed, chest out to face the storm, or maybe offer it to the firing squad. "The glitch with the engine occurred because I fired on an asteroid."

"Actually, Captain," Mayweather mumbled around his bruises, "I was the one who got us into trouble. I flew the pod right through the small debris, and the exhaust ports got clogged."

Archer let his eyes slowly stray from one to the other. Yes, it was a fine crew.

He let the silence become just a touch uncomfortable; then enquired, "How did the new upgrades work?"

Three pairs of eyes exchanged a quick puzzled glance.

"Just fine, Capt'n," Trip replied for them all.

Archer drew in a deep breath. "Then I suppose the mission was successful." He restrained a grin as surprise showed on the men's faces, in various forms and degrees. "Take two days off, all of you," he went on to order. In the stunned silence he turned and left, and was already at the door when Malcolm spoke.

"Captain, what about the anti-robbery device?"

Archer turned. "What about it?"

"Permission to keep it, Sir?"

Malcolm and his security obsessions. He had almost forgotten about that weird idea of his; deep-freezing any crooks who might try to steal their pod.

"How is it actually activated?" Archer enquired, curiously.

"It's set to go off when the language spoken inside the Shuttlepod is not English, Sir."

Archer raised his eyebrows. "_Whose_ English, Lieutenant?" he teased. "Maybe you could fine-tune it," he added with a smirk. "Make it English _and_ Vulcan; wouldn't want T'Pol to freeze her... _self_," he finished, catching himself.

As the doors were beginning to close after him, he could hear an explosion of chortles. Stopping both, he peeped back in and said, "And find a way to switch it off quickly, just in case."

* * *

Hoshi cast a look inside the Observation Lounge, uncertain whether she should intrude. Trip and Malcolm had been sitting there for most of the morning – on day one of their two days off – talking. Or maybe in silence, as they were now. All she knew was that she wanted to make sure the two of them were okay. The tension between them, recently, had been telling, and painful to witness.

Summoning the courage, she took a step inside. She had always found the Observation Lounge slightly disquieting. Beautiful as it was to watch the stars go by, it was a powerful reminder of where they were and how fast they were going.

The two officers turned to her, and it was reassuring to see Trip wave her over, and Malcolm break into a faint smile. At least they didn't seem to mind her presence.

"Commander, Lieutenant," she said, approaching. "Thought I'd drop by to say hello."

"It's good to see ya," Trip said, though not with the open enthusiasm he would usually put in the words. As he gestured for her to sit down, in fact, he had that look of slight apprehension typical of someone who is about to face a test.

Sliding into the seat, Hoshi noticed that Malcolm's eyes, on the other hand, weren't straying from the cup of probably cold tea in his hands. He was the only person she knew who could look more exhausted when off duty than when he worked a double shift.

Feeling Trip's gaze on her, she turned back to him.

"I'm sorry, Hoshi," the Engineer blurted out, those very blue eyes burning with feeling.

"There's no need," Hoshi hurried to reply, embarrassed by Trip's embarrassment. "Away missions always involve a certain amount of risk. We all accept that."

Trip exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm.

"What the Commander is trying to say," Malcolm took over in a deep voice, eyes back on his cup, "Is that he's sorry you had to witness my inexcusable unprofessional behaviour."

"What I meant, Hoshi," Trip said, with a long-suffering sigh at Malcolm, "Is that we shouldn't have let the tension get the better of us." He winced. "You and Travis had to suffer our squabblin', and that wasn't right."

"I am the one to blame, Commander."

"Do you always have to take all the credit, Lieutenant?"

Hoshi tilted her head. "You were saying?" she teased, letting a smile soften the words.

Malcolm sighed. "Right," he croaked out, while Trip rolled his eyes in self-reproach.

"It's not fun seeing you argue, I admit," Hoshi said, more seriously. "But I know there is a good reason why you're acting that way. And I hope you'll be back to normal soon. I miss your old yous, if you know what I mean."

Another quick glance passed between the two.

"We'll be okay, Hoshi, don't worry," Trip said, switching on his gentle charm. "It's just a few glitches, but we'll fix them. We're as tough as nails."

Malcolm nodded. "Indestructible, weatherproof, not to mention doughty and indomitable."

"You mean you agree with me, Lieutenant?" Trip wondered, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.

Malcolm jerked his head to the side, in that funny way of his. "Most of the time, Commander."

He finally lifted those shifty grey eyes long enough for Hoshi to fathom them. She liked what she saw in them: the self-assurance she was used to, in Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

"Is that good enough for you, Ensign?" the man enquired.

Hoshi felt her face relax in a smile. Yes, things would be okay.

"Good enough, Sir."

THE END


End file.
